


skintight

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Blood, Dermatillomania, Fever, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Joan picks her skin, Sickfic, Skin picking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: Joan picked her skin
Kudos: 38





	skintight

Joan’s doing it again. Plucking. Pulling. Stretching. Scratching. Grating.

Rubbing the tenderness of it raw till its scratchy and hollow, imperfect, so rough beneath the pads of her fingers, tender under the subtle twitch of her claws.

She wants to rip it all off. Make herself clean. New. Fresh.

She relishes in the pain. It feels…good. Perfect. Whole.

She’s never felt as good as when she’s tearing off strips of your own pale skin, letting it fall and flutter to the ground.

Pull, stretch, rip, sting. Pull, stretch, rip, sting. Pull, stretch, rip-

Joan knows what she does is bad. She knows what she does is gross and weird and wrong. She knows, she knows, she knows.

But there’s an itch under her skin. An entire colony of fire ants that march along her muscles, clamping and chewing and gnawing with their little mandibles. It hurts, oh it hurts, and it itches even more. That’s why she does it. To get the infestation out from her flesh.

Over time, though, it became something more.

Even when the ants weren’t crawling, she would pick her nails against frays on her arms, chew off strips from the sides of her fingernails, grind away bits of her lip with her teeth. It helped her relax, believe it out not, gave her a sense of grounding.

Is this how Maggie felt when she bit herself?

The habit is bad, she knows, but it’s impossible to stop. Not like she’s addicted to drugs, though, so what’s the big deal?

Maybe it’s because her arms and legs have become a battle ground of red and brown. She didn’t care up until costumes became sleeveless and everyone could see the ugly scars littering her limbs. The whole production team was probably staring at her- staring at how hideous and disgusting she looked.

The music director of the show should not look like this.

And yet, she did.

You’d think the shame would get her to stop, but it doesn’t. Her hands still skid across her arms in search for patches to pick at, usually without her consent. This process has become hardwired in her brain and she couldn’t power it off.

Did she even want to?

Joan had her limits, although that may be hard to believe with everything that has already been said about her and her nasty habit. She knew when enough was enough for one day and cleaned herself up to try and act like she was normal, despite the gaping pink maws that were opened up on her arms and legs.

However, she lost herself one day. Lost herself to the habit and the itch and the need to remove every imperfection from her flesh.

The worst part? It was during a show.

Joan scratching and picking at her arms during a show wasn’t uncommon. When she didn’t play, she tended to get a little bored, so she let her hands wander while she waited for her next cue.

It was after Get Down when she went a little too deep. Joan’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when she saw how much blood was coming out of a scab just below her elbow. She tried to stem the flow, but she had to start playing again or else she would screw up the whole show.

She cringed when blood smears across the keys of her keyboard.

Fear and anxiety nagged at Joan’s mind. She was starting to prepare her eulogy in her mind. as Maria and Bessie were definitely going to kill her once they noticed.

(They has been trying to get her to stop, trying to help her relieve herself from this habit. Sometimes their efforts work, sometimes Joan just pretends they do. She knows they just want her to get better, and she loves them for that, but she just needed this. She wished they understood that.)

Droplets are spattering with each quick movement Joan made while reciting the current song on her keyboard. All You Wanna Do is fast. It’s making her area look like a crime scene. There was enough of a mess back there for a blood splatter analysis to do a whole investigation.

Joan swallowed hard, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment. The open wound is starting to ache. The itch has returned. The blood is still drooling.

She hopes she bled out before Bessie would hound her.

Joan doesn’t hate this habit the way she should probably hate it, the way she knew other people hated it, it’s just- it’s hard to explain to people who don’t go through whatever this is. Picking releases endorphins in her, she thinks, because the sensation that wafts over her after the old skin is peeled off is one of euphoria. Even with the after effects (the dull throb that pulses around the edges of the scab, the ugly pink hole left behind that everyone stares at, the chides from her family), she never really let it bother her too much. This was the way she was.

However, right now, with droplets of blood creeping into the thin spaces between the keys, she was really starting to get annoyed.

The worst part, though- the worst part is that she didn’t even stop. Once All You Wanna Do was over and she could stop playing for a moment, her hands unconsciously moved around her arms without consent, removing anymore crusted skin and causing more blood to spill out.

Bessie was going to kill her.

By the time the show was finally over, Joan had a plan. The minute the lights turned on, she was gonna bolt as fast as she could to the bathroom and wash her arms. She readied herself in her stool, preparing to vault herself offstage, but that never happened.

“Is that blood?!”

It was Anne who yelled so loudly Joan was sure the audience could hear it, even with the heavy curtains closed.

Joan froze in her spot. She kept her eyes trained on the ground before slowly looking up to see everyone’s reactions. Aragon and Jane looked worried and Maria looked sad, Cleves, Anne, and Parr all seemed curious, Katherine appeared a little sick, Maggie wasn’t even looking at her, rather the ground, and Bessie had what Joan was sure was disappointment on her face.

Shock, horror, confusion, and disgust. That’s what they all really were. It was the only proper reaction to finding out someone likes to pick off their own skin.

Bessie takes Joan by the hand and guides her offstage without a word. Joan keeps glancing back at the others, seemingly for help, but doesn’t resist.

“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered while Bessie was cleaning off her bloody arm in the bathroom.

Bessie merely hummed in response. She’s heard that too many times to react at this point. It makes guilt chew away in Joan’s stomach.

“I-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Joan.” Bessie said, “This is not good for you. How many times do I have to tell you until you listen?”

“I-I am listening!” Joan squeaked.

“Then why? Why are you still doing this? I’ve told you so many times to stop and just when I think you’re doing good you-” She gestured for the ugly pink hole in Joan’s forearm, “you do this! Again!”

This was basically the equivalent of her saying, “I’m disappointed, but not surprised” which was true on its own.

“Maggie has stopped biting herself. Why can’t you stop picking?” Bessie said that word as if it were a curse and it made Joan feel even worse. She knew Bessie wasn’t meaning to be rude, but she was obviously at her wit’s end with Joan and her nasty habit. Joan would be, too, if the roles were reversed.

“I-I don’t know,” Joan whispered, refusing to make eye contact with the bassist.

Bessie sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her hair. She shook her head, not knowing what else to say about this.

“I’m sorry.” Joan said softly.

“Are you?”

—————

Normally, a hot shower would be relaxing, but when covered in open scabs, it was like a torture segment. Instead of cleaning Joan, it was scraping her skin off entirely. Claws of fire latch onto frayed edges and tore down, tunneling deep into her very core.

Joan wasn’t going to let herself be defeated by a damn bath. This was nothing! This was just. Bloody. Showering.

Her knees gave in and she collapsed into a pool of her own pus and blood. One of her scabs got too irritated thanks to the water pressure and was now leaking red everywhere.

Joan screws her eyes shut and rested her head back against the tile wall. She stretches the edges of the scab so the water can flush out the inside. Maybe it’ll help. The pain was kinda nice, anyway.

She exhales shakily, letting the stinging wash over her. It’s all she could do right now. Until her cells stopped having an aneurysm, she would just have to wait it out under this rain of fire.

While she did so, her hands began to wander. Up her legs, past her hips, and to the scar.

The scar banded around her torso, just below her rib cage. It was sustained from the snare she had gotten caught in in her past life- a constant reminder of her death. Just like the one on her ankle.

Without thinking, she began to scratch at the scar. It took awhile, but she was determined, and the skin eventually broke open. She carved out a nice slit that followed across the scar before calling it good and preparing to get out of the shower.

The pain that rattled through her was new. Since the fresh scab was situated on her torso, it got agitated a lot with the movements she made. It definitely was going to get annoying, but would be worth it.

Or, that’s what she thought at first.

Three days later and her torso was festering. The scab was pulsing with the beat of Maria’s drum all throughout the current show, blood thrumming with the vibrations of the bass and nerves humming with the tune of her keyboard. The cloth of her costume was rubbing uncomfortably against the raw edges, and she now knew why Maggie hated it so much. She tried to just bare it and took a few painkillers, but they were starting to wear off.

The next thing she felt was what she could only describe as a ‘tearing sensation’. Heat bloomed across her rib cage. Never before had she been this thankful for the costumes being black.

Joan kept her jaw clenched during the rest of the show. It was the only way to cope with the intense pain radiating through her middle. She counted the seconds before the MegaSix ended and then bolted offstage in the most subtle way possible.

While heading to the bathroom to clean herself up and also change clothes, Joan couldn’t help but notice some of the production team eyeing her wearily. She wondered if she was actively dripping blood all over the backstage area.

It wasn’t just blood, she realized. Slimy yellow-green discharge is slick on her hands when she takes off her costume and checks the wound; it’s drooling between her fingers. She doesn’t know if that’s a natural color, but the foul odor it has can’t be any better.

After stemming the flow of blood and discharge, Joan gets dressed in her regular clothes and tried to walk it off. The pain ends, eventually, but would return when the scar breaks open again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

By the sixth the day, Joan is starting to realize that picking open a scab on an area she moves around a lot probably wasn’t the best idea. That was an impressive thing for her to think about because she wasn’t realizing a lot of things.

Joan feels sick. Like, really sick. She’s dizzy, her head hurts, everything is achy, she’s never not nauseous, and she keeps going from hot to cold to hot again. She figures it’s a cold, but the scab on her torso begs to differ.

It’s too late for her to realize that she probably shouldn’t have a scar that usually stays open pressed against cloth. The clothing she wore was agitating the wound, dirtying it up and rubbing it raw. It didn’t help that, whenever it wouldn’t break open on its own, Joan would pick at it constantly. She liked tearing off the bits of rougher flesh around the edges- those were her favorite.

But now something is definitely wrong.

To her credit, though, nobody noticed at first. However, Jane’s mother instincts flare, eventually, and she confronts Joan just before the next show.

“Hey, love,” She said, getting the girl’s attention. She can’t help but notice the slight glaze in the grey-green eyes, ”Are you okay?”

Jane was expecting Joan to say yes, as she was rather stubborn, but when Joan shook her head, her worry increased.

“No,” She whispered, “I don’t feel good…”

Jane set a hand on Joan’s shoulder to help steady her and used the other to feel her forehead. Her eyes widen.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re burning up.”

Joan mumbled something inaudible and leaned into Jane’s touch, relishing the coolness against her heated skin.

“You’re not going on like this.” Jane decided, “Come on. You can rest in one of the dressing rooms and then we’ll get you home after the show. How does that sound?”

Joan doesn’t remember answering. In fact, the sweet hum of Jane’s voice was the last thing she really remembered before her brain shut off. The only thing she really knew was that her torso itched _really badly._

—

After the show ended, Jane immediately went to her dressing room, which is where she had left Joan on a makeshift pallet of clothes and a few blankets kept around the theater. One of the alts agreed to watch over the girl, and she was currently sitting beside her, wiping her face down with a cool rag.

“Jane,” The alt said in relief.

“How is she?” Jane asked instantly. The worried frown she got did not make her feel any better.

“Not too good.” The alt told her, “She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for awhile and keeps trying to scratch herself.”

Jane knelt down next to Joan, who was currently unconscious, or seemed to be, at least. She brushed a fringe of hair out of her flushed face, and Joan opened her eyes upon contact.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jane whispered, keeping her voice soft and tender. “I’m back.”

“Jane,” Joan whispered. Her eyes were glassy and she wasn’t really seeing the queen. “You’re…” She trailed off and her head lolled to the side.

“Joan? Joan, honey,” Jane lightly patted Joan’s cheek, snapping her back to attention. The girl blinked at her a few times, staring at her as if she were an alien from Mars.

This was definitely much worse than she thought.

Katherine and Parr, who shared the dressing room with Jane, suddenly entered in a commotion of noise. It causes Joan to flinch and then black out again. Jane snapped her head around to glower at the new arrivals.

“Shh!” She hissed.

Parr and Katherine freeze. Just before they ask about why Jane was hushing them, they see the pale girl laying beside the queen.

“Is she okay?” Katherine asked first.

“What’s wrong with her?” Parr asked second.

“Sick,” Jane answered, “She’s running a high fever.”

There was a mumble from below and all three of them look down to see Joan lolling her head back and forth across the makeshift pillow. Her eyes are half open, but she doesn’t appear to be seeing anything. Jane immediately turns her attention back to her and takes one of her quivering hands.

“Joan, sweetie, I’m right here.” She said to her, keeping her voice low and soft, “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

There’s the tiniest bit of pressure on Jane’s hand, which she accepts as good enough.

“Good. That’s very good, darling.” Jane looks to the other two queens, “Can one of you get a water bottle for me?”

Katherine is the one to nod and hurry out of the room. Parr stays behind and kneels down next to Jane. She winces when she feels Joan’s forehead.

“She’s on fire, Jane.”

“I don’t know what made her so sick.” Jane said, biting her lip.

“The flu, maybe?”

“Maybe…”

“Bessie?”

Joan is starting to mumble deliriously.

“Bessie? Where…. Bessie…?”

Jane and Parr exchange looks before Jane starts to stroke back some of Joan’s mop of wet hair. Her entire face is burning hot and damp with sweat, as is her whole body because of the tight black costume.

“She shouldn’t be laying in that,” Parr said, referring to the costume. “Let’s get her out of it. She’ll probably be more comfortable.”

Jane nodded and gently hooked her hands under Joan’s back, slowly lifting her up to keep from disturbing her. Still, the girl’s eyes snap open completely and she blinked at the queen.

“What…you…”

“Relax for me, honey.” Jane tells her, “We’re just going to get you out of your costume, then you can go back to sleep. How does that sound?”

Joan’s eyes snapped open at that. She starts to squirm and whine weakly when she’s sit up, trying to avoid Parr’s hands, which we’re reaching for the zipper of her costume.

“No, no, no, no, no…” She mumbled over and over again, sluggishly shaking her head back and forth, “Please no…no….”

“I’ll get Maria.” Parr said, “Or Bessie. Maybe both. She’ll probably feel more comfortable with them doing this.”

As she leaves, Katherine returns with a water bottle, which Jane has to hold to Joan’s lips and tip upwards so the girl would drink. Joan fought it for a moment, but then gratefully accepted the water, even if it made her stomach churn in a warning.

“Bessie?” Joan called our weakly, “Bessie- where… Bessie…? Bessie…”

“Bessie’s coming, love,” Jane said, rubbing her shoulder, “Bessie will be here soon.”

True to her word, Bessie is soon in the dressing room, along with Maria. They’re immediately down by Joan’s side, taking turns feeling her forehead and having the same concerned expression.

“We need to get her out of the costume.” Jane said, “Can you help?”

“Of course.” Maria nodded.

Carefully, Jane steadied Joan with her arms around her shoulders as Maria unzips the zipper and Bessie starts to tug down the sleeves. Joan starts to struggle the moment cool air hits her clammy skin, begging them to stop, and they don’t know why until the costume is pulled down to her waist.

“Oh my god,” Jane covers her mouth in shock.

The scar on Joan’s torso is inflamed and warm to the touch, unnatural pink and angry red. The skin around the edges are blazing scarlet, rubbed raw from the constant friction of fabric rubbing against it. Within the raging maw, a foul-smelling, yellow-green discharge drools free with a few drops of blood.

“What…what did this?” Maria asked in shock. “I don’t remember her ever getting hurt. I would have known if-”

“She picked it open.”

Bessie’s voice was hard and, even in her feverish daze, Joan flinched. Guilt filtered through her and she whimpered, tears filling her eyes.

“It’s infected.” Parr said. “She needs to get to the hospital.”

“What about her clothes?” Maria asked.

Parr gnawed on her lip for a moment before grabbing the wet rag Jane had been using for Joan’s forehead.

“Get her dressed and then someone hold this against the cut. I’m going to go wet it again. Water should help flush it out on the drive to the hospital.”

So that’s what they did. Maria and Jane peeled off Joan’s sweat-saturated costume and then got her dressed, much to the girl’s embarrassment and dismay. Even with her raging temperature, she still had a sense of humiliation and knew she wouldn’t live this down for awhile.

Especially when she noticed the disappointed look on Bessie’s face.

The car ride was mainly a blur. She faintly remembers the tears down her cheeks and someone brushing them away, murmuring sweet things in her ears and telling her she would be okay, and someone else holding a cool rag, which felt icy cold, against the cut on her torso. Worried voices came from the front seats, but she couldn’t discern them at all.

Then there was the hospital. First the waiting room, clutching at her aching torso in the plastic seat, trying to scratch to combat the pain, and warm hands pulling her own away. They hold her fingers until a nurse called her in. The examination room was the most blurry thing in her memory, but there were the blindly bright lights and swabs brushing against the edges of her scar and questioning voices.

And then the pain.

Joan cried out when the scar was being flushed out. Even in her feverish state she put up a fight, but eventually gave in and went numb. The hands on her torso continued their work of washing and cleaning and soothing the infection.

Bandages were soon wrapped around her torso and she’s lying still on the hospital bed. The dressing is itchy. She swears it’s worse than the clothes rubbing the scar.

Voices. She hears people talking, but her vision is obscured by black spots, so she doesn’t know who it is. Someone else is stroking her hair, too.

“The scar wasn’t infected beforehand?”

“No. It’s been healed for awhile. She picked it open.”

“She picked it?”

“Yes. It’s…a bad habit. She does it constantly.”

“I see. Hang on one moment.”

Silence, besides too-quiet whispers. The door opens and closes. A few minutes later, it opens and closes again.

“Have you ever heard of dermatillomania?”

“No.”

Fade out.

Cool blackness….

—————

“You’re going to addiction therapy.”

Joan hadn’t known if she were relieved or afraid to see Bessie sitting beside her hospital bed when she came to. Then she bassist spoke those words and she realized it was, in fact, fear.

“Wh-what?” Joan croaked, her voice hoarse.

“Addiction therapy. It helps people with conditions like…yours.”

“Condition?” Her voice is even weaker this time.

“Dermatillomania. It’s a skin picking habit.”

———

The itch under the bandages was so bad. Joan wanted to scratch so badly, but Bessie’s disappointed face kept coming back to her and she just clutched tightly at her bed sheets.

Bessie hated her. Bessie hated her. Bessie hated her.

Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? What Joan does is so disgusting.

Her mother figure was repulsed by her.

It was the dead of night and Joan was crying and squirming in her bed. She kicks her legs and hits the mattress with her closed fists, doing anything to keep herself from scratching.

Apparently her struggle was a little loud, because footsteps head down the staircase, go towards her room, and the door is pushed open.

“Joan?”

At Bessie’s voice, Joan sobs audibly.

Immediately, Bessie is on the edge of her bed. There’s a hand on her shoulder and Joan sobs again, louder this time.

“Oh, Joan, sweetie, what’s wrong? Was it a nightmare?”

Joan shook her head, choking on her tears.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, you’re okay now, darling.” Bessie whispered, stroking fringes of blonde hair out of her face. “I’m here”

“Wh…why are you touching me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you touching me?” Joan repeated, stuttering and stammering, “I’m- I’m so disgusting. I’m so repulsive and horrible and-” She wailed softly, “Just go away! You hate me! You hate me!!”

Bessie is quiet for a moment. Her hand is hovering over Joan’s shoulder. Then, she sighs.

“Joan…no. No, I don’t hate you.”

“But- earlier- y-you-”

It clicked for Bessie and she gasps softly.

“Oh no, Joan, no, no, no. Sweetie, I don’t hate you. I don’t think you’re disgusting, either.” Bessie said, “If this is about how I reacted earlier, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, I was just…worried.” She shook her head, “But that doesn’t justify how I made you feel. I’m so sorry.”

Joan sniffled, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She wanted Bessie to hold her, so she moved slowly and Bessie understands. Warm arms wrap around her and she’s laying down with Bessie holding her close.

“It itches,” Joan whispered into Bessie’s chest, “B-Bessie, it itches. It itches so bad, I-” A pained noise worms out of her lips and she dug her face further into Bessie’s chest.

A hand slides down to her torso and began to rub gentle shapes against the area of the scar. Joan’s breath catches in her throat for a moment before she let out a content sigh. She swore she felt the scratchiness and pain ebb away at Bessie’s touch.

“How’s that, sweet girl?” Bessie asked. She felt Joan nod into her chest, so she continued, humming ever so softly to help soothe the keyboardist further. Slowly but surely, Joan relaxes in her arms, but she still doesn’t stop her gentle massage.

“My perfect girl,” Bessie murmured at one point. That sentence made Joan’s heart skip and few beats.

“Y-you think I’m perfect?” She squeaked out. “Even though I…”

“Yes.” Bessie said, pressing a kiss to Joan’s forehead, “Everyone has their flaws, darling. That doesn’t make you any less perfect.” Another quick kiss, this time to Joan’s temple. “I only ask you come to me when your habit starts to act up, okay? I’ll help you. I promise.”

That promise was tested three days later.

Bessie was just starting dinner when staggered footsteps entered the kitchen. She turned around to see Joan, pale and anxious, clenching one of her wrists tightly.

“B-Bessie,” She rasps out, “I-it’s happening again. It’s _bad_, Bessie.”

As she promised, Bessie stopped what she was doing and guided Joan over to the couch. She gently rubbed up and down the inside of Joan’s arm, her cool touch easing the pinpricks in her skin.

“Sorry,” Joan muttered, chewing on the pads of one of her fingers, “I just- Sometimes it burns like that and I-” She stopped when something was pressed into her hand. She took her finger out of her mouth and looked down at it. A…fidget cube? “Um?”

“For you to use. It might help.” Bessie explained.

Joan doubted that, but, ten minutes later, she was completely entranced by the stupid toy, her eyes as big as a cat that just saw feet move under a blanket. Bessie couldn’t help but chuckle lovingly as she got back to dinner.

She wouldn’t have her little moonlight goddess any other way.


End file.
